Title: Negative Utopia

Author: prufrock's love  

Rating: NC-17

Classification: Novel, Post-colonization, Serious Angst, MSR, RST
for the shippers,  Everybody/other- but it turns out really, 
really badly, Secondary character death, Implied rape, Scully 
POV, Mulder POV 
                                 
Summary: After the world ends, Mulder and Scully's struggle to
survive at any cost continues.

Spoilers: Through mid Season 7 

Distribution: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/utopia.html 

Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.  This isn't intended for profit.

Author's notes: There are strong elements of romance in this 
story, but die-hard MSRs who adored "Cycles" may not like this.   
It's not… light.  Rereading it, it reminds me most of The Stand 
(but much, much shorter) and Terminator, if that helps.  I have 
an idea for another MSR, so hold on to your flames for a few 
weeks - this is what the muse sent me this time around.  Can't 
piss off the muse.  For those that like to play "find the obscure 
reference," they're not that obscure this time and include Brave 
New World, 1984, Fahrenheit 451, The Handmaiden's Tale, Lord of 
the Flies, The Stand, and a few biblical (not Ghostbusters!), the 
Mad Max movies and Independence Day.  All quotes used as 
transitions are cited, so they're easy.  

The Greenbrier Bunker in White Sulphur Springs, WV is a real
place and (free plug) open to the public for really expensive, 
really cool tours, none of which profit me, either.  For the 
obsessives:  
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/bomb/sfeature/bunker.html
offers an excellent VR tour, although I have a difficult time 
getting this site to load.  
http://www.greenbrier.com 
is the site for the hotel.  

James Randi heads a foundation that offers a million dollar prize 
to anyone who can scientifically demonstrate the paranormal, and 
the prize remains unclaimed.  Apologies to Randi, Newt Gingrich, 
and Pat Robertson - at least I didn't kill you off, and that's 
always a big danger in my stories. 
 
Introduction: The aliens have come and gone, leaving the planet
devoid of civilization except for a few pockets of survivors.  By
making a deal with the Grays, Mulder has saved Scully only to 
lose both himself and her into the madness that follows 
colonization.  "Negative Utopia" tells the story first from 
Scully's and then Mulder's point of view as they fight to survive 
in the wasteland and to come to terms with who they've each 
become- to themselves and to each other.  

This is fundamentally a dark love story about Mulder and Scully 
with guest appearances by Skinner, Krycek, Marita, Gibson, and 
The Lone Gunmen.  It draws heavily on classic negative utopias 
such as Fahrenheit 451, 1984, Brave New World, and others and
incorporates many elements of the X-files mythology.  

This novel evolved from the need for a continuation of what I 
originally wrote as a short story- Negative Utopia from only 
Scully's point of view.  How did Mulder become the man readers 
are introduced to in the beginning of the story and how did the 
relationship between he and Scully play out after the original 
ending?  There was also strong interest in Skinner's actions, so 
his actions were more fully detailed.  After some thought, the 
second section evolved in the interest of closure, such as it is 
with my fics.   

Be warned that the general reaction (to Section I) has been 
"darkly excellent."  Characters in this story are the ones we
know and love from the X-files after an apocalypse destroys
everything they use to define themselves.  It answers the 
question: what becomes of humans when there is no humanity left?   
Who is sane when there is no sanity?



Negative Utopia
by prufrock's love
                     ***

2 August 1914 
Germany has declared war on Russia.  Swimming lesson in the
afternoon.

               -diary entry, Franz Kafka
                Outbreak of World War I 

                     ***

Part I: Scully

I am his now.

It's still surprising to me how readily I think of myself as 
property.  As though I have no say over my life anymore, no 
voice.

In truth, I don't.
          
I haven't for a long time.

Granger, the leader of the colony where I was living, told me to
pack my things this morning.  I obeyed, although there wasn't 
much to pack- a change of clothes, my doctor's bag, a few 
toiletries, an old picture of Mulder and one of my family.  And 
the watch.  I dug the man's watch out of its hiding place - duct 
taped under my night stand - and wrapped it in my spare pair of 
jeans before stuffing it in the very bottom of my duffle bag.  No 
one was going to steal my dirty jeans.  I figured I'd been traded 
to another colony again.  A doctor was a powerful bargaining chip 
and winter was coming.  They needed supplies.

I looked around the old house that had been mine for the last few
years and said goodbye to things I'd come to think of as my own. 
A vase of fresh flowers from the man next door, my examine room,
a warm bed that I slept in alone.  None it was actually mine, of
course.

I only hoped the next colony would be as nice to me.  I hoped it
was a colony I'd been traded to and not a single man.  

Maybe Skinner had found a way to get me back.  Could I go back
to him at Alpha Colony?  It was safe with him, too.

Yes; I could go back to Skinner.  I didn't hate him.  I 
understood.

Maybe it was Mulder.  Maybe Mulder had finally found me.  

No.  

I can't even think that after this long.  Mulder is never going 
to come for me.  

I hope it's Skinner instead of a stranger.  I can still feel his 
hands and breath on me, so careful.  As careful as Mulder was.

STOP THAT!  

Don't even think it!

He's never going to come back for you.

I pulled myself up to my full sixty-two inches, took a deep 
breath, and opened my front door to discover who my next owner - 
or God forbid - owners, was.

Mulder was standing in the shadows of my porch next to a wooden
box about the size of a milk crate.  I thought at first he was a
mirage, one of my dreams come to life.  No, he was really there.
Finally, really, there.  I wanted to touch him, but he didn't 
move - he was so still he could have been a statue of a vengeful 
angel.  Mulder had no expression, made no sound to acknowledge 
me.  The leader lifted the box lid, nodded, and without a word, 
handed my duffel bag and doctor's bag to him.  

The deal was done.  Whatever the terms were, they were 
acceptable.

Mulder walked down the cracked steps without looking at me and
got into the driver's seat of a green Jeep.  I followed quickly 
like a child tagging along at his heels, afraid to look back.  
Afraid I would feel the Granger's hand on my shoulder stopping 
me, asking me where I thought I was going.
 
Hours have passed now and Mulder still hasn't spoken.  He's older
- it has been more than five years sincce I last saw him.  His 
hair is cut short and his face is tanned, as though he spends 
most of his time outdoors.  Gone are the expensive suits, 
replaced by serviceable denim, cotton, and leather.  He's clean 
shaven, which is odd these days, but he hasn't shaved today.  
There's a gun and a knife on his hip, normal apparel now, and 
more weapons and survival gear in the back seat.  I see a long, 
roughly healed scar on his forearm and another on his jaw, 
evidence of violent encounters - with who or what exactly, I 
don't know.  He's still slim, but his body is denser, rougher.  
Shoulders are broader; muscles built by survival instead of bench 
presses.  In short, Mulder has hardened.

He doesn't seem to notice that I'm staring at him.  In fact, he
doesn't seem to notice much of anything except the dashboard and
the asphalt road ahead of us.

Mulder just drives silently, through mile after mile of 
nothingness.  

The bigger cities were destroyed, not by the aliens, but by 
humans.  What wasn't burned or looted in the initial panic was 
bombed once governments toppled and extremists got their fingers 
on the "nukes" buttons.  Some cities are still supposed to be 
hot, although I think only the smaller bombs hit in the US.  I'd 
heard that China was wiped clean, but you hear all sorts of 
things.  By the time the aliens were in place to start their 
breeding programs two days later, there wasn't much left to breed 
with.

Once colonization began, the seas boiled and the skies fell.  Any
humans that could be found were rounded up and infected with
Purity by the aliens directly since the bees were mostly 
annulated by the bombs.  I don't know of anyone that survived the 
concentration camps - if they found you, you died.  If you were 
stung by one of the bees, you died.  I'm guessing there aren't 
more than a hundred-thousand people left on Earth, which means 
there are several billion extra gray alien bastards roaming the 
universe now.  They gestated, hatched, and moved on within a 
month, leaving the planet raped not only of its citizens, but of 
its civilization.  

What followed reminded me of a Stephen King novel - pockets of
survivors began to emerge and regroup into colonies.  Most
survivors were those already infected with Purity or vaccinated 
by the Consortium - including Mulder and me - who couldn't 
gestate.  There were a few others, though, who managed to escape 
the human toll and evade the aliens' camps and bees.  We peaked 
out like gophers after the hawk flies on, searching for 
direction.   

As civilization arose from its ashes, it reformed and regressed
thousands of years.  There was no law except to survive.  Trade
what you have, if you have it, for what you need, or kill and 
take what you want.  The strong survived, the weak either died or
became property.  I became property.  

I didn't realize that at first.  It wasn't like someone stood me 
on an auction block one day and started the bidding.  All I 
wanted to do was survive and avoid being raped or dying of 
starvation or exposure.  I didn't suddenly wake up one morning 
and realize that I didn't control my life anymore- it was a slow 
progression.  

First, as a woman, it attracted dangerous attention for me to 
leave the colony, so I immediately became dependent on others for 
food and supplies.  I had to ask for everything I needed, from a
pocketknife to underwear - embarrassing, but safer.  I knew the
men I was with - Skinner and The Gunmen - and they took pride in
seeing I had everything I could ever want.  

Since I couldn't hunt or forage very far, I had no idea what was
really happening outside of the fences I lived behind - only what
others chose to tell me, although I trusted them.  I knew they 
didn't tell me some of the horrors they saw, but I probably 
didn't want to know.  I was seeing enough horror in my little 
medical clinic.

I noticed I wasn't consulted about major decisions because I
couldn't do the heavy physical work of rebuilding or fight in the
battles between colonies, but that seemed fair.  I didn't want to
vote on how high to build the fence or where to build the barn
anyway.  

It was easier to align myself with one powerful man and let him
defend me than to fend off advances from every male around.  That
was a matter of convenience.  

Sure it was.

Looking back, I can remember the first time it happened, but I
didn't notice until it was too late.  Somehow I slid down that
slippery slope one day at a time and now there was no clawing my
way back.  I was property and I had just been traded.

I've been treated much better than most women.  Dramatically
better, thanks to Mulder and medical school.  As a doctor, I 
belong to the community, not to a single man anymore, so the 
community had an interest in me being well-cared for.  I've never 
been actually raped or hurt and I always have clothing and enough 
to eat.  A man tried to force me once and was later found in the 
woods after his exile with both his hands cut off; a strong 
warning for other men.  Mulder's warning.  My skills were for 
sale, but my body belonged to someone else.  

Now Mulder has come to claim it.

I am Mulder's now.  That thought brings a surge of warmth
between my legs even as my stomach knots in fear.  I am Mulder's
now.  I still have no choice.

As I notice the pressure in my bladder and the emptiness in my
stomach, Mulder pulls the Jeep off the road into the trees and 
stops.  He gets out and disappears silently into the woods, 
leaving me sitting in the passenger's seat. 

So it is true - he can still hear others' thoughts as clearly as 
he could five years ago.  I've heard stories about the great Fox
Mulder, but it's hard to separate fact from legend.  Mulder is a
mystery man, capable of killing with a thought.  His preferred
weapon is a pistol, a straight razor, his bare hands.  Mulder 
fights for the aliens, the rebels, the humans, or for his own 
gain.  He kills for profit, for revenge, for pleasure.  He was 
too dangerous for any colony to accept him, so he roams.  He is a 
monster, a hero, a tragedy.  Any of the rumors could be truth or 
lies or somewhere in between; I had no way of knowing. 

I only knew that I had been alone for a long time until this 
morning.  But I am Mulder's now.

Mulder returns and hands me a bottle of water, an apple, and a
wedge of cheese from a bag in the backseat.  He must have been
somewhere with a dairy to trade recently.  There was no shortage
of fresh water and game, but anything that required processing, 
like cheese or butter, is rare.   Few people have the skills 
necessary and those that do often used those skills to keep 
themselves alive, rarely having excess to trade.  

That was how colonies emerged - providing protection for
inhabitants in exchange for services for the colony.  Farmers 
farmed and hunters hunted while warriors warred. Men realized 
quickly that they had to eat in order to fight.  There were other 
benefits in a colony - a group leader could trade for things an 
individual could never afford - a doctor or an engineer.  
Leadership was gained and maintained by violence, if necessary, 
and fighting between colonies was legendary.  Disputes over 
boundaries, trading rights, women - anything, could spark a 
gorilla war between men with little to lose. 

Both colonies I have lived in had rules similar to the laws 
Before and breaking the colony's rules could mean anything from a 
fine to exile to execution- it depended on the colony and the 
leader's mood.  For a woman, exile from the safety of a colony 
could mean a slow death.  There was nowhere to go even if I was 
desperate enough to run - the whole planet is the same wasteland.
          
It's getting dark now.  The further the sun sets, the tighter 
that knot in my stomach gets.  Night means beds.  Women are too 
rare After and sex is too expensive a commodity - ownership of 
any woman came with certain inalienable rights.

And I am Mulder's now. 

Mulder would never hurt me; I'm just a little nervous.  And 
Mulder is being a little weird.

A little?

We'll have to stop soon.  Even Mulder wouldn't brave headlights 
in the dark to keep driving - announcing he was a sitting duck to
anyone who might be watching.  He still doesn't speak or look at
me, but his face is haunted in the dying light; a man whose eyes
have seen too much.  

He turns off the road into a long dirt driveway and stops the 
Jeep behind a peeling white farm house where it can't be seen.  I 
follow him into the dim interior, clutching my duffle bag and 
trying to control my shaking.  What do you want from me, Mulder?  
Do you still love me?  Is this where you live now, Mulder - a 
quiet farmer in the middle of nowhere?  Are all the legends about 
you lies?   

No - he doesn't live here.  No one's lived in this house for a 
long time.  This is just a place to spend the night.  I watch 
Mulder rig all the windows to make noise if they're opened and 
brace the doors closed, locking out the night.  He finishes his 
rounds in the bedroom, standing at the foot of a stranger's bed.  

I take the hint.   

I love Mulder - I can do this.  

I'd rather do it willingly than be forced.   

Not like this isn't force.  I do have a choice.  I can run away 
and be gang-raped by the first group of road warriors that 
catches me or I can undress.

I unlace my boots to get them off and let my jacket fall on the 
floor - it probably can't get any dirtier.  Jeans off next, then 
over-shirt.  I don't have any pajamas, so I lay down on the bed 
in my panties and t-shirt.  

I love you, Mulder - please don't hurt me.  I'm cold.  I'm so 
scared.  I pray he hears me.

He doesn't bother to even undress - doesn't even take off his 
boots.  In the dark, I hear him set something heavy and metal on 
the night stand - a gun - and the bed shifts as he lays beside 
me.  I'm very still, waiting for a touch.  When it doesn't come, 
I roll away from him and will sleep to take me instead.  We slept 
like this once, Mulder.  Do you remember that night?  Knowing 
there would never be another like it - two scared people trying 
to save each other with flesh in the shadows.  

The bed shifts again as Mulder moves towards me.  I try not to
flinch, holding my breath.  A hand rests lightly in the small of 
my waist, tentative and comforting, and I feel safe.  For the 
first time in years, I feel safe and I sleep.  
 
Dawn.  

I wake to Mulder wrapped around me instead of the blanket, and I
forget for a sleepy second that the world has ended.  We're still 
in DC or a motel room somewhere and Mulder has fallen asleep in 
my bed.  God, Mulder, don't you have your own room?  Not that I'm
complaining, but it doesn't look good.  Then sun burns away my
dream and I remember.  No more motels, no more FBI, no more
innocence. 

We aren't staying here.  He's left a bucket of water for me to 
brush my teeth and wash off my topmost layer of dirt, and by the 
time I finish, Mulder is filling the Jeep's gas tank and loading 
water and supplies that were hidden in an outbuilding.  This must 
be a safe house he uses.  Rumor has it that he cris-crosses the 
country regularly alone, making the trip that others fear.  The 
walled colonies are somewhat safe; the empty plains filled with 
real road warriors are not.

I get in the Jeep as Mulder starts it and another day on the road
begins.  He looks at me, really looks at me for the first time 
with sad hazel eyes.  Oh, Mulder - I love you.  No matter what 
you've done or who you've become, I still love you.  I feel him 
inside my mind, listening.  He puts the Jeep in gear, eyes 
straight ahead now.  I brave a hand on his denim arm and he lets 
it stay.

Mulder drives without stopping across the plains, passing cars 
that have been shoved into the ditches by someone to clear the 
road or taking dirt paths across the fields where the road isn't 
passable.  If there is another soul alive here, I don't see him.  
There are fields gone to seed and an occasional shell of a burnt 
house visible from the road, but no humans.  I wonder how these 
people died.  They probably weren't killed in the initial riots 
or by the bees - did any of them survive, escape the alien's 
concentration camps?  Or did they lay terrified under chicken 
wire while the black oil dripped onto them, gestating and 
exploding in their bodies as it took life?  

Mulder stops to let me empty my bladder again between the rows of 
corn and I see a figure approaching the Jeep from behind as I 
return.  Whoever it is, I can't see his hands.  I yell for Mulder 
to look out and he pivots and pulls the trigger without 
hesitation.  The shot catches the dark-skinned boy in the center 
of his forehead, killing him instantly.  Mulder must have become 
a better marksman since I last saw him.
                         
I examine the dead boy out of habit and my need for something to
do in my shock.  He doesn't have a weapon.  He doesn't have the
back part of his skull anymore, either. 

"How did you know he was going to hurt us?" I ask Mulder.

"I didn't," comes his blank response as he starts the Jeep.  I
swallow against the urge to vomit and get in, leaving the body of 
a boy not old enough to have peach fuzz on his face laying in the
road for the buzzards.

I know Mulder can talk now, but he doesn't say anything else as 
he drives.  I let my mind drift away from the horror and sleep 
lightly in the warm sun against his shoulder.  I can't judge him.  
I didn't have to survive what he survived.  Mulder was the reason 
I was safe and sheltered in all this madness.  
                     ***

Penetrating so many secrets, we cease to believe in the 
unknowable.  But there it sits, nevertheless, calmly licking its 
chops.
-H. L. Mencken
                     ***

The phone rang just after midnight on a Monday morning.  Damn
it, Mulder - it was a holiday.  No chasing bad guys on a holiday.  
I figured he felt too lousy to do anything anyway - he'd had 
another monster headache Friday afternoon and I'd sent him home 
to sleep it off when I still couldn't find anything wrong with 
him.  Not that it wasn't fun checking, but he seemed okay.  I had 
a CT scan scheduled for him tomorrow and was planning on making 
him wear a hospital gown so I could ogle that cute ass.

Hey - he would have done it to me.

Mulder's voice on the line was forceful: "Pack like you're going
camping and call your mother.  Tell her to get out of the city.  
I'll be there in thirty minutes, Scully."

I was already stuffing a bag.  Mulder didn't give me orders 
unless it was important.  Life or death.  "Why, Mulder?   Where 
are we going?"

"They're coming."  And he hung up.  I didn't need to ask who
"they" were.  I telephoned my mother with the message and told
her I loved her.  I was waiting on the curb when he pulled up.  

Mulder took a Bureau car - he could care less about protocol.  If 
he was right, by tomorrow, there wouldn't be anyone to object.  
We drove southwest, flying down the interstate as visions of 
"them" chased us.  Sunrise found us just over the Virginia border 
and revealed giant discs hovering silently in the sky, looking 
remarkably like Independence Day.  I wondered if Mulder ever saw 
that movie? 
                         
Mulder stopped behind a huge hotel and I realized where we are. 
The Greenbrier.  The Greenbrier bunker in White Sulphur Springs. 
The bomb shelter built covertly under the luxury resort decades 
ago to house Congress in case of nuclear attack.  It wasn't a
government secret anymore - but the aliens didn't know that.  

Skinner was already there, as were The Gunmen and a few
politicians I recognized from CNN, waiting to close the main 
door.  Mulder and the others pulled the second concealed blast 
door connecting the bunker to the hotel shut with an immense 
metallic echo, sealing us off from the world before its 
inhabitants awoke to find judgment day had come.  As Skinner 
threw the bolt, locking us behind tons of reinforced steel, 
silence pervaded.
          
Were we all there were?  Out of five billion people, were we ten 
or so the only ones who knew?  

How did Mulder know?

"I can hear them in my head," he answered me.  I didn't ask out
loud.

"I can hear you, Scully," he said.

"Hear, Scully."

"Hear, Scully."
                     ***

It could be that God had not absconded but spread, as our vision
and understanding of the universe have spread, to a fabric of 
spirit and sense so grand and subtle, so powerful in a new way, 
that we can only feel blindly at its hem.
-Annie Dillard

                     ***

I shake myself awake.  Mulder is speaking, his voice rusty.  
"We're here, Scully.  We won't stay, but you can clean up."  

"Here" is yet another farm house with skinny chickens in the yard
and children playing on the front steps in their underwear and
diapers.  A pretty woman comes to the door, holding a rifle.  
When she sees Mulder, she lowers the gun and returns to the house
without speaking, leaving the door ajar.  Maybe no one speaks
outside of the colonies.

Mulder gets a bag out of the back seat and takes it in the house 
as I stand in the yard fending off hungry chickens and a friendly 
milk cow.  He's bartering - some cigarettes and whatever else - 
for what this woman sells.  I can guess what it is that she 
sells.  Through the window, their bartering looks pretty heated.  
The woman keeps shaking her head "no" and I see Mulder clenching 
his fist.  She sees it too and backs off.    
     
Women didn't fare well After.  That was all it was called – 
Before and After.  Firstly, there weren't many women After.  I 
was probably the only female that had been vaccinated, and very 
few had been infected with Purity.  Most of the others that 
survived were flukes - hunters out in the woods up north, 
fisherman out in boats - almost all men.  After the aliens left, 
the bees died, and rebuilding began, the few females were 
important pawns, but pawns.  Some lived as wives if their 
husbands were powerful enough to keep them safe, but most didn't.  
Most made their way with the skills they had.  Like this woman.

Her swollen belly and the children on the porch were evidence of
another post-colonization phenomena I had encountered - no birth
control.  I'd delivered many babies in the last five years, most 
of them unwanted.  Latex breaks down quickly and pills, if you 
could find them, were outdated.  Within two years, any fertile 
woman of childbearing age looked like something out of the middle 
ages.  I'd seen some women with five children under the age of 
five.   

Mulder comes out and nods curtly at me.  I step over a dirty 
dark-haired toddler and preschool-aged boy on the wooden steps 
and go to him.  I know this woman.  I've seen her.  Her 
expression indicates she obviously knows and dislikes me.  Mulder 
looks at her threateningly and her overt distaste fades into mere 
annoyance. 

Then I remember - she's one of Mulder's informants.  Worked for
the UN.  Name starts with 'm'- Miranda, Matilda?  It doesn't
matter - now she's just a whore.  She must have a man watching
out for her; there was no way she lived alone out here.  I see
Mulder doing something mechanical in the back yard with the 
little boy and the toddler following him around - they know him, 
he must be here a lot.  Then I realize who Miranda/Matilda's 
protector must be.  Her Big Brother.

Again, I do not judge.  Our parting words were: "Survive.  No
questions."  I did what I had to; I guess Mulder did too.

Perhaps I can even make myself believe that.

The blonde woman grudgingly fills the tub for my bath, carrying
water from a pump in the yard and heating several pots on the
stove.  I lay back in the luxury; I can't remember the last time 
I bathed in something besides a stream.  There is even soap and
razors.  Shampoo and deodorant.  There was no shortage of 
supplies After, but getting them from place to place was still a
problem.  Anything with a shelf life that survived the looting 
was there for the taking and there weren't enough people left for 
there to be shortages; the supplies were just in isolated 
pockets.  Several colonies had established local trade routes, 
but not many.  Most were self-sufficient, trading for what they 
need with whoever happened by.  

Mulder must bring her these things.  

He could bring a whore shaving gel, but he couldn't come get me
for five years.  

Looking out the window as I dry, I see Mulder offer the older boy 
a lollipop beside the stream.  The boy takes it shyly and sits 
beside Mulder on the bank, leaning against him.  They could be 
any poor rural father and son or uncle and nephew enjoying the 
warm sunshine in their back yard Before, except that I saw Mulder 
shoot another boy point-blank this morning and threaten a woman 
with his fist an hour ago.  

I will not cry.  I will not cry.  I can feel the lump rising in 
my throat, but I will not cry.

Sometimes, I'm sure it's not real.  That this is a bad dream that 
I'll wake up from.  It's - surreal.  Aliens invading, 
civilization collapsing.  It was a movie I'd seen or book I'd 
read.  There were even jokes about it - the colony I was living 
in was "451," and "Alpha" before that.  Drugs and alcohol were 
"soma."  There were "unpeople" and "big brothers," "road 
warriors" and "savages."  A rival leader was a "Randall Flagg" 
and a woman not a whore or a professional was a "Martha."  Post-
apocalypse humor.

Clean, practical clothes have appeared in place of my dirty ones 
and I put them on, marveling that they fit.  I remember silk and
cashmere fondly - it was still available, but useless.   
Functional is the fashion; cotton, denim, wool, and leather.  Mad 
Max meets John Wayne.  I dry my hair in the breeze and watch 
Mulder bathing nude in the stream, hard muscles rippling in the 
sun.  The little boy sits on the bank, already scrubbed clean and 
wearing tiny Osh-Kosh overalls.  No shirt, but miniature burnt 
yellow work boots identical to Mulder's.  He's holding Mulder's 
gun and knife, still savoring the last licks of his lollipop.  
That child can't be more than four.   

You don't let children have guns, Mulder.  And you let them get
sticky candy all over themselves and -then- bathe them.  Even I
knew that.

I remember Mulder teasing me when we went undercover as a
married couple once Before - how he jokingly barked orders at me,
aping a redneck accent.  I resisted the urge to jokingly kick his 
butt.  Mulder, in general, had been scared to death of my temper 
and knew exactly how far he could push me before I lost it.  

If that man out there that looks like Mulder barks an order at 
me, I'm following it, whether it's to get in the Jeep or to take 
off my clothes and get on my hands and knees.  I'm not 
questioning him and I'm not giving him advice on how you care for 
little boys.  

Just because he hasn't hurt me doesn't mean he won't.  I know
danger when I see it.

God - what happened to him?

When Mulder returns to the house, hair still damp, he opens the
hood of her Chevy truck in the driveway.  The boy sits on the 
left fender, handing him tools and watching.  He tinkers a bit 
and the engine hums to life.  My Mulder that couldn't fix a 
dripping faucet.  The woman brings Mulder a rag to wipe off his 
hands and a glass of water.  I didn't get a glass of water, but I 
get the feeling she doesn't like me very much.  If I were her, I 
wouldn't like me very much, either.  

It's afternoon now - only a few more hours of daylight.  I don't
want to spent the night here, Mulder - not with her.  I can't lie 
on the other side if the wall and listen to you have sex with 
her, Mulder.  I don't want her to listen and gloat while you have 
sex with me.  Please don't remind me that I am as much your 
property as she is.  I try to think that as loudly as possible.

A man with a familiar face emerges from the corn fields, holding 
the customary rifle, his other sleeve empty.  Krycek.  Wonder how 
well he shoots with one arm?  He and Mulder exchange glares and 
the oldest boy runs and hides behind Mulder.  Krycek leers at me 
and Mulder puts a hand on the pistol on his hip, warning him.  
Krycek turns and vanishes into the fields without a word, the 
toddler trailing after him.  Guess Mulder is the better shot.  I 
don't even worry about the possibility of Mulder offering me to 
another man - Mulder is not good at sharing.

The woman brings a dirty baby to me to check.  I pronounce her 
fine and probably underweight, and the woman nods and returns to
the house, closing the door loudly behind her, never speaking to
me.  I'd like to check her pregnancy and the other children, but 
that isn't requested.  Mulder starts the Jeep and I get in, 
thankful that we're leaving.  I'm not asking any questions - I 
don't think I want the answers.  The oldest boy climbs over me 
and settles himself in the back seat, fastening his seatbelt, 
humorously enough.   

Mulder just drives west into the dying sun. 

We spend the night in another abandoned house, the boy sleeping
curled up against my chest and Mulder against my back - like some
bizarre blended family.  I thought perhaps Mulder was waiting for
me to get cleaned up before we had sex, but that doesn't seem to 
be the case.  Maybe that isn't what he had in mind after all.  
I'm not sure I like that possibility any better.  I still don't 
know the boy's name or why he's with us.  Like Mulder, the child 
doesn't say much.   

Morning brings more west again.  I can see the outlines of the 
gray Rocky Mountains on the horizon in the distance.  The miles 
hum by as the air cools and the Jeep's knobby tires singing 
against the pavement lull me.
                     ***                

Black holes would seem to suggest that God not only plays dice 
but also sometimes throws them where they cannot be seen.

-Stephen Hawking

                     ***
                    
The bunker smelled like a battleship - lots of metal and gray 
paint.  Vast.  No sounds invaded to tell us what was happening
aboveground - were the rebels striking back or was the planet
already dead?  Mulder said the ships were moving into place and
would soon begin collecting specimens.  That was the word he
used; how the aliens think of us.  No, the rebels were losing. 
People were dying.  Mulder closed his eyes and scanned through
the radio stations of thoughts he must have been hearing.  He
couldn't find my mother or brothers, but that didn't mean 
anything - there were so many thoughts to listen to and he could 
only listen, not necessarily know who he was listening to.      

The bunker had space and provisions for several hundred people
and we were less than a dozen.  Our watches said it was night
again, although there was no sign - no way to tell night from 
day.  We fanned out through the dormitories and rooms, trying to 
get our bearings in the maze of hallways.  Mulder led me to a 
room on a floor all to ourselves and I followed without question 
- my first steps down the slope to becooming property.  When he 
closed the door, I sat on the bed, buried my face in my hands, 
and cried.

I was embarrassed to be so weak, but I couldn't stop.  The last 
few hours had been too much for me to absorb and I needed to shut
down for a while.

Mulder held me as I shook, sharing my tears.  I could feel him
inside my head, a gentle probing pressure.  Light pressure to 
feel what my body felt, more intense throbbing to listen to my 
thoughts.  He could feel my grief and shock, but I couldn't feel 
his.  Early in the morning I had finally fallen asleep against 
his chest when I heard him startle awake and gasp.  
     
"It's quiet."

"What's quiet?" I whispered, like the aliens would hear us fifty 
feet underground under twenty feet of cement and steel.

"The thoughts - it just suddenly got very quiet."  Mulder 
listened in the blackness, tuning to someone who might have an 
answer.  "Mushroom clouds, Scully - nuclear bombs.  They've wiped 
out the cities."

"The aliens?"

"No, we did it."

God, he must have just heard millions of people die.   What that
must sound like...

"Are the aliens still coming?"

"They're coming - they want me.  They're looking for me."

"Why, Mulder?"      

"They know I can hear them.  They want me to help them 
communicate.  They can't find me, though, so they're searching...
they're searching for you.  The chip - they're searching by the 
chip in your neck.  I can hear them.  They haven't found you yet, 
but they will.  They don't want you, Scully; you already have 
Purity - so do I, but they'll still kill you to get me."

He had to run, to get away from me before the aliens could get 
him.  But where could he run too?  We were locked under tons of 
steel.  

I didn't realize until years later that I never even considered 
that I should leave the bunker - for him to stay safe since I was 
the one the aliens could track.

"The bombs are still exploding, Scully - the cities are burning 
and they can't search through all the interference.  Not for 
another few hours, anyway.  Then I'll have to go."

There was no more talking.  Alone in the dark, cinderblock room,
in the too-narrow, too-short bed, I kissed him.  Not the way I'd
thought of from time to time, but hungry and frightened.  I was
desperate to find something to cling to - something normal and
enduring in a world that was changing too fast for me to
comprehend.  

Mulder's mouth was more gentle than mine, as though he was
savoring a delicate desert.  He made love to me the same was he'd
touched me for years - carefully exploring new territory and 
waiting for my reaction before proceeding.  He set the pace with 
me following like a scared teenage virgin being seduced by her 
teacher.  Finally, Mulder stopped waiting for me to be an equal 
participant, laid me back on the rough sheet, and worshiped every 
inch of me - memorizing my body because he might never see it 
again.  This wasn't the kind of lover I wanted to be for him, but 
that night, it was all I could give.  I told myself I couldn't 
let him go without proving to him that I loved him.  

I told myself this was about love.

I could feel Mulder being distracted by his thoughts, pulled away
from me by the screaming tides outside the bunker.  "Just me,
Mulder.  Come inside me," I whispered, and the throbbing in my
head increased until it blocked out even my listening to my own
higher brain.  I felt the brief pain as my body accepted his and 
soft lips apologizing onto mine.  I could feel my sensations, but 
there was no room for cognition, no rationalization, no doubts.  
As a woman whose thoughts had always interfered with love-making, 
it would have been a frightening experience, except that I 
couldn't feel fear.  Only the seductive mix of pain and pleasure 
that was loving him crashing over me, wave after wave.  Mulder 
shared my every sensation, intensifying his own experience, and 
allowing him to play my body like a fine violin.  He came because 
he felt me coming because he was coming because I was coming.  
Together, we were a complete cycle.

Afterwards, our bodies separated, but Mulder stayed in my head,
listening to my sleepy thoughts.  My fears.  My desires.  In that
night, he knew my truths.  

"They've found you, Scully.  They're coming."  I bolted upright 
at those words.  Mulder was dressed and sitting on the edge of 
the bed.  "I love you.  I'll ask Skinner to take care of you- 
just stay with him.  I've been listening to everyone and he's the 
best choice.  He won't let anyone hurt you, but... he likes you, 
Scully.  Just do what he says, okay?  I'll come for you when I 
can.  Until then, I want you to survive - no questions about how 
you do it."  

A thousand thoughts flooded my mind at his words.  No, don't
leave me.  Run, Mulder - don't let them catch you.  Take me with
you.  I don't want Skinner - I want you.  I can take care of 
myself.  How long - how long until you can come?  Hurry.  I love 
you too, Mulder.  Please.  

But Mulder was gone.  I heard his footsteps in the long cement 
hall, leaving me.  I ran to catch up and heard him talking to 
Skinner.  "Take care of her, sir.  I can hear what's happening 
already to the women outside and I don't want that to be Scully.  
I won't let the aliens hurt you all, but you'll have to keep her 
safe here.  Just you.  Don't let anyone else...  Don't hurt her, 
sir."  

Mulder must have heard my thoughts, because his next words were,
"I'm sorry, Scully.  Go back - I don't want you to hear this.  
Just survive - no questions."  I retreated back into the cold 
room, sitting on the still-damp spot on the bed, curling into a 
ball and sobbing.  Down the long hall I heard twenty tons of 
blast door swing slightly open, then a monstrous clangy thud as 
it quickly slammed shut again.   
                     ***                

God does not play dice with the universe; he plays an ineffable
game of his own devising, which might be compared, from the
perspective of any of the players, to being involved in an 
obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch dark room, with 
blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a dealer who won't tell 
you the rules, and who smiles all the time.

-Gaiman and Pratchett

                     ***

We stop for lunch and to let the restless little boy stretch his 
legs behind a grain silo.  I ask him his name as Mulder slices 
another apple for him with a huge hunting knife, cutting off the 
peeling like my mother used to do.  The child shrugs, huge hazel 
eyes watching me.  Old eyes.

"Boy.  We just call him Boy," Mulder says.  Boy nods.  I haven't
heard him speak yet either.  Mulder seems to know what the boy
needs, just like he knows what I need, although he gives him more
food that he could ever eat.  He gets a rifle out of the back of 
the Jeep and vanishes into the tall grass and random rows of 
corn.  After about twenty minutes, I hear a shot and see a large 
goose fall from the sky.  Dinner.

"He won't hurt you, ya know."
                    
So the boy can speak.  I thought it might have become a lost art. 
His slow, measured words are too old for his years - they remind
me of the way Gibson Praise spoke.  

"He's takin' you someplace safe.  He likes you."

"Can you hear like he can?" I ask, and the boy bobs his head up 
and down childishly - the way a four-year-old should.  A shit-
eating grin crosses his face and mischief glimmers in his eyes.  
He reminds me of someone I used to know Before...

Mulder.  He reminds me of Mulder.

This is his son. 

The toddler and the baby were Krycek's or some other man's, but
this boy is Mulder's.
          
Mulder and that whore's.

A second shot and another bird drops from the sky.  Mulder must
be hungry.  Two fat geese are added to the back of the Jeep and 
we pull back on the road.  West.  Always west.
                       
                     ***                

For the scientist who has lived by his faith in the power of 
reason, the story ends like a bad dream.  He has scaled the 
mountains of ignorance; he is about to conquer the highest peak; 
as he pulls himself over the final rock, he is greeted by a band 
of theologians who have been sitting there for centuries.

-Robert Jastrow

                     ***

The first problem in the bunker was boredom.  The was nothing to
do, day after day, week after week.  Frohike cooked, Skinner and
Byers maintained the generator and the water processing plant, 
but for the rest of us, there was nothing that required our time.  
I did one round of kitchen duty before I was removed by unanimous
vote.  Of course, I get trapped in a bunker with Newt Gingrich 
and Pat Robertson with nothing to do - why couldn't Skinner have
more interesting poker buddies?  Wherever Mulder was, he was
laughing his ass off.

Langly tried using his laptop to interface with the antiquated
communications system, but there was no dial tone.  No network
still standing for the modem to link with.  No TV or cable
transmissions.  Then he got the old ham radio working.  The
Gunmen spent every free hour scanning that radio, searching for 
life like the SETI project.  I often sat with them for lack of 
anything better to do, listening to the static.  I was 
daydreaming one afternoon when I heard Langly shout:

"Randi!  You owe me about a million dollars, mother-fucker!"

A man's voice crackled through the static, "I got it right here – 
been using it for toilet paper."

James Randi.  The great skeptic.  A hero of mine and a nemesis of
Mulders - on the other side of that radio, our link to life on 
the other side of the blast doors.  I sat next to Pat Robertson 
at breakfast and lost my last stick of gum to Newt in a game of 
five-card stud today.  God definitely had a sense of humor.

According to Randi, the aliens seemed to have collected all the
humans they were going to take.  The saucers had moved on, along
with the faceless rebel fighters.  The larger cities had been
destroyed and Randi hadn't seen another person since Before. 
He'd been out on his boat with his dog when they came and
returned to shore a two weeks later to find his house and his 
family  gone.  Now it was just him and an old dog, sitting in a 
lighthouse beside the ocean.  Waiting.
          
Did we stay in the bunker or did we leave?  Skinner voted to 
stay, as did The Gunmen, but the others wanted to go.  No one 
asked me.  Society was already changing.

The final decision was to open the blast doors but to stay in the
bunker, so Skinner and Byers unlatched the huge gray door,
leveraging their weight against its squealing hinges as it 
opened.  

There was nothing alive except deer grazing in the ruins of the
resort and dogs looking for their masters.  No people.  Mulder 
was right - the world had suddenly become quiet.

In many ways, our group was very well off.  We had a stronghold
that was practically impossible to penetrate.  I had a medical
background and The Gunmen had technical knowledge; Skinner
and some of his friends had the Marine's survival training.  The
politicians - well, they - they had lots of opinions.  No cities 
near us had been bombed, so no fallout.  We had food and water to 
last for months.  We started rebuilding.

We weren't the only ones who knew about the bunker, of course.  
Men began to appear out of the woods and from the road leading
into the valley, clutching rifles and backpacks.  Some were
mountain men native to the area, some were military men already
infected with Purity that survived the bombs, riots, and bees. 
Within six months, there were more than a hundred men living in
Alpha Colony with more arriving every day.  Alpha-males.  Skinner
was never humble.
     
It's not that I'm not a grown woman - I can handle myself.  And
it's not that all the men were crazed rapists, either.  It was 
just the constant stress of being the lone woman that made me 
start to retreat.  I had a man at my heels every time I budged - 
helping me carry firewood, wash dishes, scrub my clothes in the 
stream.  The ever-present male eyes followed me all day, always 
there and always wanting. 

The final straw was when I was bathing - in the stream, of course 
- and discovered I had a group of admirrers.  Men were willing to 
sit in the rain to watch me bathe.  I told Skinner and he went 
with me the next time, in theory, looking the other direction.  I 
was more comfortable with the Gunmen as my guards, but they 
didn't dissuade the other men the way Skinner did.

Skinner had been asked several times what he wanted for me - the
men assumed we were covert lovers.  Good to know fifteen
minutes with me is worth two cows - we laughed about that offer
for days.  Skinner had never mentioned whatever he and Mulder
discussed, and he hadn't made a move that could have been
construed as sexual.  He just took care of me, keeping me with 
him when he could and arranging a guard when he was away.  There
were several gay couples that formed- and left - but most men
watched me.  Brought me things they thought I wanted from
outside the valley and sat beside me at meals.  Most of them were
polite, just lonely - they accepted my polite "no" without 
question.  Other men, frankly, frightened me - Alpha Colony was a 
tough place by then.  Mulder was right, I needed protecting, as 
much as I hated it.  This was a society where the strong thrived 
and the weak suffered, and I was one of the weak.  I couldn't 
survive on my own if I left, but it was becoming more and more of 
an issue for me to stay.

One man in particular was a problem from the moment he arrived. 
He'd made his way north from Tennessee, and I always thought he
was probably a relative of the Peacock family.  No too bright. 
Didn't like hearing "no."  Finally, he grabbed me in my room and
managed to rip my nightshirt off before anyone heard me 
struggling and came to help.  Once the man was gone, the others 
just let me sit on the bed while they stared at me, embarrassed, 
but not helping me or leaving me.  Skinner finally came in from 
guard duty after an eternity and threw everyone out.  He wrapped 
the blanket around me and stayed with me until I calmed down.  

It was a long time before I calmed down.

It wasn't the shock of being attacked - God knows I'd been
attacked often enough when I worked on the X-files.  My terror
was two-fold. First, the knowledge that I couldn't protect myself
anymore finally sunk in.  I had somehow become helpless -
dependent - and it made me angry.  Furious.  Agent Dana Scully,
M.D., is NOT helpless.  And second, there was no one I could
depend on except Skinner or another man like him.  Langly, Byers, 
and Frohike would die trying, but they would die.  The other men
helped me because they assumed I was Skinner's and didn't want to
risk making him angry.  

The world had stopped being a nice place. 

I could choose a man to protect me or I could have one chosen for
me.

That night, I realized that Mulder was right about something else 
- saying Skinner liked me was an undersstatement.  He cared enough 
enough not to take advantage of me on a night when I would have
let him.  Probably would have welcomed him.  Just stayed with me
until I was calm enough to face the men outside and then led me
down the stairs to his bedroom, knowing exactly what impression
that would give any man who thought about touching me.  Skinner
cleaned off the other bed, put his blanket over me, and sat on 
the floor beside me until I fell asleep.  I spent every night 
there for months.

The next morning, Skinner told the Tennessee man to leave the
colony.  He refused and Skinner shot him in the back of the head,
execution-style, with the same look in his eyes that Mulder has
now.  After that, Skinner was our leader; no one questioned him.  
I was under his protection, so no one approached me.   

Life went on.  It was hard to tell sometimes that I had become
property, but I had.

I started to pray again.  

I prayed to my Catholic God, Mulder's clockmaker God, and
anyone else that might be listening up there - for Mulder to come
back, for my family, for myself.  My unspoken prayers were
somehow louder if I kneeled, so I put a thick blanket down in the
little dental clinic adjoining my clinic and prayed there during 
the day, where I thought I was away from prying eyes.  Skinner 
found me a few times and brought me back a Bible, a statue of the 
Virgin, candles and a rosary so I could create my own alter.  The 
Bible had a family tree written in the front - names of people 
who had died while I lived.  I prayed for those names, too.

My mother would have been proud of how much time I spent on
my knees - making up for the time when I had cancer, I guess.  
Occasionally I would hear a noise and find a rough-looking man 
I'd never seen before kneeling beside me, lips moving silently in 
prayer for someone or something.  Forgiveness for sins or safety 
for loved ones?  Death with peace or strength to survive?  What 
did these men pray for?

They never spoke to me - which seemed to be a command from
Skinner - but it was good to know I wasn't the only one who
sought comfort outside these gray walls.

I turned to Heaven and my faith for salvation in those months;
Mulder must have turned somewhere else.  Don't think I don't
understand what it's like to need to be numb, Mulder, because I 
do.  And God answers prayer, Mulder - but sometimes the answer is
"no," no matter how loud or long you ask.  Faith is about 
accepting His answer.

And eventually you get up off your knees and go on with your 
life.

Men still came to me for medical treatment in the bunker clinic 
with Byers, usually, looking on with a rifle.  I even gave lethal 
injections to two men that were infected with Purity by left-over 
bees instead of having Skinner shoot them before the aliens 
hatched.  I told myself it was a mercy killing.  

There was a medical school somewhere close by and I made lists of
what I needed, drawing pictures in an attempt to get the right
instruments.  There was no way I could go myself, even with
Skinner and guards; I was too easily identifiable as a woman -
endangering the entire group.  I was as much a prisoner as if 
there were bars at the edge of the valley.  It was that bad.  Two 
hundred men and one woman in Alpha Colony and God only knew who
prowling in the woods.  I was trapped. 

All I could do was wait for Mulder, but God kept saying "no."

One night I felt the soft throbbing in my temples, like a 
migraine, except it didn't hurt.  More like a doctor gently 
kneading an abdomen - pushing, searching.  The pressure increased 
and I knew it was Mulder - alive and listening to my thoughts 
from wherever he was.  He could still do it, even after the 
spaceships moved on.  I laid back on my cot and welcomed him.  
Skinner was asleep and snoring softly in his bed against the 
wall, so I let my hands roam over my body, knowing Mulder could 
feel the sensation.  Sleep came and he had left me when I awoke.

I felt Mulder's presence often for a while when I was at Alpha
Colony - usually at night, but sometimes in the day just to 
listen to me.  To make sure I was safe.  I had no way of knowing 
where he was or why he didn't come get me, but I knew he was 
alive - somewhere in the vast emptiness outside that valley.

Skinner appeared in the clinic one day complaining about his head
"feeling funny."  I found no evidence of neurological problems or
any illness in my rudimentary exam.  He said it didn't hurt, just 
felt "funny."  I sent him back out to work on the barn we were 
building for the livestock, ordering him to return if it actually 
hurt.  The men frequently developed vague complaints in order to 
get to see me and I figured Skinner was just whining.  Not that 
Skinner ever whined and he could see me whenever he wanted.  It 
was still bothering him as we got ready to go to bed, which 
worried me.  I rechecked him, but he was still in excellent 
health - all the outdoor physical activity suited him.  I 
couldn't find anything wrong and he insisted it didn't hurt, just 
throbbed; pressure like someone was examining him from the 
inside.

It was Mulder.  It was Mulder listening to him.  Listening hard 
and long, more than necessary to gather any information about our
group or about Skinner and me.  Mulder wanted to feel what
Skinner could feel.  I knew what Mulder wanted to feel.

That meant Mulder couldn't ever come back to get me.  

That God was saying "no."

And faith is about living with His answer.

I didn't explain what was happening to Skinner - I doubted he
wanted a third in our bed.  I just slipped off my clothes in 
front of him and waited.  The birds and the bees and the monkey 
babies, Mulder.  Birds do it, bees do it, even educated M.D.s do 
it.  I just closed my eyes and licensed his roving hands.

Skinner didn't question me that night.  Afterwards, I went back 
to my own bed and slept alone. 

"That was Mulder, wasn't it?" he asked me the next morning.  I
nodded and he left, his face bearing the same stern, controlled
expression it always did.  

It didn't happen again for several weeks and Mulder didn't listen 
to me, either.  I filled my days with stitching up wounds, 
removing splinters, and even performed an appendectomy I was very 
proud of with the assistance of a very green Byers.  I knew he 
was in love with me by then - Byers and Skinner both.  I probably 
could have been content with either one of them, but I knew 
Skinner could keep me safe.

I hated that I had become someone who had thoughts like that.

There were more fights - struggles for power and supplies.  Most 
of the men in the colony were ones I would have thought of the 
bad guys Before.  Covert government agents, MIB, and special 
forces among those that had Purity, mostly military and mountain 
men with the training to survive among those that weren't 
infected.  Skinner was holding on to power, barely, and I was 
more and more a liability for him.  If he was overthrown as the 
leader, I would be the first casualty; probably becoming the 
unwilling property of the new leader.  Leadership of Alpha colony 
came with a nice bunker, a band of ex-military men that killed on 
command, well-established trade routes, and the privilege of 
sleeping with me.

Skinner came to me the next time, making love to me gently and
silently.  He said only that Mulder was listening and asked my
permission.  I closed my eyes and gave it.  Whatever Mulder
wanted.  It happened again a week later and then not for another
month.  I never dreaded it - Skinner was a good lover - but I 
missed Mulder in my head, listening for me.  
                       
                     ***

I do not feel obligated to believe that the same God who has
endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to
forgo their use.

-Galileo
                     ***

Something is very wrong.  My body is flying through the air like 
a limp doll, weightless.  Did gravity switch off?  It wouldn't 
surprise me at this point.  Suddenly, my head hits something hard 
and the sun fades to black.  

It's raining - my face is wet.  If the rain is falling down, 
gravity must have come back on.  I can hear Mulder, so I must be
dreaming; Mulder left me.  Mulder will never come for me.  

No, it is Mulder, holding me in his lap and calling my name,
hoarsely begging me to wake up.  I fight to open my heavy eyelids
and see his worried eyes full of tears.  That's the rain.  After 
a few minutes, my head clears and I ask him what happened.

"We rolled over," the little boy answers my question, looking 
very proud of himself.  "I was wearin' my seatbelt."

Good for you, Boy.  I'm friggin' thrilled for you.  God, who let 
a million bumble bees loose in my head?

All I get from Mulder are shaky hands cleaning off my face and
"I'm sorry," repeated over and over.  He's about half a step from
sanity - I think the nosebleed did him in.  The boy further 
reveals that the road had suddenly caved-in, flipping us into the 
gully and throwing me clear.  Mulder and the Boy, who were 
wearing their seatbelts, were unhurt, but I'd been out for 
several minutes.  And I was "bleedin'."

What a day.

Should have buckled up - gravity and all that.

I assure Mulder that I'm fine, but he won't leave me alone.  
Finally I yell, which causes my head to pound but gets Mulder to 
stop fussing over me.  I sit in the road feeling stupid while he 
rights the Jeep, drives back up to the road, and gathers the 
supplies that are scattered all over the place. 

I must have been asleep a while, because this doesn't look like
Kansas anymore.  Hell, this doesn't even look like Earth.    

Oh look - my best friend, Mulder, and the illegitimate child he 
had with a whore before he switched careers to professional 
killer almost have our Jeep reloaded.  Did I mention he's psychic 
now?  So's the kid.  And he owns both of us outright. 

Christ, my head hurts.
          
The Boy smirks when Mulder tosses several broken bottles of
whiskey and the cartons of cigarettes they have soaked into the
ditch.  There are a couple of looks exchanged and the Boy dodges
quickly, missing the brunt of Mulder's sudden slap on his face.  
I try to get up and intervene - I can't believe that Mulder just 
hit a child. 

I get to my knees as Mulder warns, "Don't you dare think of her
that way," to the boy.  Either that slap wasn't as hard as I 
thought or the boy doesn't know how to cry, because the boy just
apologizes and comes to help me, looking chastised.  I kneel 
frozen - stunned as the rough pavement cuts into my knees.

Mulder is embarrassed.  He examines his boots closely and then
vanishes for half an hour.  By the time he returns, the boy has
helped me clean my scraped elbows and bloody nose and explained
what cigarettes and whiskey are usually traded for - whores. 
Mulder wouldn't need to pay for sex since he'd just bought me,
according to the boy.

I'm not sure I wouldn't have felt the urge to spank you too, boy.  
I wouldn't have slapped you, but that's not nice.  I know he 
doesn't remember a time that women were useful for something 
besides sex and I know he's a child and he's been listening to 
Mulder and...  

And I'm going to cry again if I don't watch it.  

My brain can't hold all this.
     
Mulder has reappeared as silently as he left.  I'm not speaking 
to him and he better not listen to me.  He can beat me senseless 
if he wants, but I'm not going to watch him abuse his son.  

"I'm sorry, Scully.  I won't do it again."  His face indicates he
means it.  

I want to believe him so much that I do.  He was just upset that 
I was hurt and he snapped for a second.  My Mulder would never 
hit a child.

When I get to my feet, I sway for a second before he picks me up 
in his arms to carry me.  I protest, and to my surprise, he puts 
me down without question.  I keep expecting to be forced, and 
instead, there is this weird balance of power between us.  I 
haven't felt power in years, and I'm grateful to Mulder for that, 
if nothing else.  

A familiar hand on my back guides me into the passenger seat and
then fastens my seatbelt snugly over my lap.  I would kiss him if 
I wasn't so afraid of him.  Instead, I take his hand as he drives 
to wherever it is that we're going while the boy sits in the back 
seat, happily eating all the peppermint candy he can hold.  
Mulder gave him the whole damn bag as a peace offering.

I'm sorry, too, Mulder.  I'm sorry I'm responsible, at least in 
part, for what you've become.
                    ***

Science at the cutting edge, conducted by sharp minds probing 
deep into nature, is not about self-evident facts.  It is about 
taking huge risks.  It is about wasting time, getting burned, and 
failing.  It is like trying to crack a monstrous safe that has a 
complicated, secret lock designed by God.

-Richard Preston

                     ***

I eventually had to ask myself the question: did I want Skinner 
as something more than a surrogate for Mulder?  In many ways, he
reminded me of Jack or Daniel - older, powerful, commanding.  I'd
been attracted to him because of that Before.  But I wasn't a 
child anymore and I didn't need a father-figure.  All I needed 
was to not be attacked.  All I wanted was for Mulder to come for 
me, but he was never going to.  

I needed to live with God's "no."
 
And Skinner was a good man.

Finally, I stayed with Skinner in his bed after we had sex one 
night.  He made love to me as though he was treading where the 
brave men dared not go, never touching me outside our bedroom or
announcing in any way that we were lovers, because we weren't. 
Mulder and I were lovers - I'd just had sex with Skinner a few
times.  

I'm not sure Skinner saw it that way.

We must have overslept, because I didn't hear Byers knocking.  He
opened the door to find me asleep nude against Skinner's broad
chest with his arms wrapped safely around me.  I opened my sleepy
eyes to meet his accusing ones.  

His eyes called me a whore the same way I called the boy's mother
one.  Surviving was one thing; betrayal was another.  

Byers never said anything to me, but that was the last night I 
slept with Skinner after we had sex.  
          
                    ***

But I don't have to know an answer.  I don't feel frightened by 
not knowing things, by being lost in the mysterious universe 
without having any purpose, which is the way it really is, as far 
as I can tell, possibly.  It doesn't frighten me.

-Richard Feynman
                     ***

Mulder had barely stopped the Jeep before the boy has climbed
over me like I was a set of monkey bars, running towards a blue
house.  A young man with glasses opens the door for the child and
he scampers inside, already at home.  The man - no, the teenager,
smiles at me and waves as Mulder brings in our bags and the two
geese he shot.  When I reach the front door, the young man grabs
me in a big bear hug and lifts me off my feet.  Whoever it is, 
he's definitely friendly or he'd already have eaten one of 
Mulder's bullets.  

Those glasses...

Gibson.

It's Gibson Praise.

That's right - he could hear the same way Mulder could.  Can.  If
he'd been infected with Purity Before, he was useless to the 
aliens an a host, so they would have let him live.  He was about 
ten or eleven Before, making him about fifteen or sixteen now.  

Gibson!  I kiss him square on the lips before I can stop myself.

Mulder hands the limp geese to a girl with, of course, a big 
belly.  She goes outside to clean them as I watch her, worried.  
She's barely hit puberty - her hips are still very narrow.  Might 
be about thirteen years old at the most, although she's tall.  
She was going to have trouble having that baby.  Maybe that was 
why Mulder wanted me.  

Oh please, don't let this be his child too.  She's a child 
herself, Mulder.

                     ***

Two things continue to fill the mind with ever increasing awe and
admiration: the starry heavens above and the moral law within.

-Immanuel Kant

                     ***

It was actually a pregnant woman that caused me to leave 
Skinner's Alpha Colony.  Another leader made an offer too good to 
turn down - trade me for a veterinarian they had and the other 
group would stop trying to take the bunker - call a truce and 
discuss merging the two colonies.  The leader had a wife pregnant 
with twins, according to the vet, and they needed a doctor.  

I saw Skinner's eyes as he thought about it.  The leader from 
other colony said they had other women and more civilians, so 
less infighting for power and more stability.  He said they had
prostitutes, so it wasn't likely I would be raped.  Skinner was
having difficulty keeping order among his men and waging a battle
to keep the bunker and protecting me.  He couldn't fight a war on
two fronts.  Something had to give and I caused a lot of 
resentment among the men.

Skinner never asked me what I wanted.  My AD, who always
respected my work as a woman in the FBI, never asked me.  I
didn't want to go and I told him so.  Loudly.  I argued and I 
yelled and I debated.  I even tried to seduce him when he told me 
to pack.

"Mulder was only listening the first time."  

That was all he said.  The dozen or so other times we'd had sex, 
it was just because he wanted the release, so he lied to me.  I 
was packed and ready to leave in ten minutes.  Byers tried to 
object and Skinner shot him dead.   

There were no further arguments.  

                     ***

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.  It 
is the source of all true art and science.  He to whom this 
emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and 
stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.

-Albert Einstein
                     ***

The pregnant girl cooks the geese over a fire outside, looking 
like the Native Americans that lived here before the white men 
came.  I can see the Indian features in her face - she's probably 
full blood.  Black hair to her waist, high cheekbones, long, 
beautiful legs visible under her short skirt.  She would have 
been a child on a reservation maybe, one that was overlooked by 
the aliens and the bees.  

I feel Mulder behind me on the steps, sitting with his long legs 
on either side of me.  He pulls off the hat I usually wear to 
avoid attracting attention as a redhead and unbraids my hair.  
It's longer now, touching my shoulders - it's easier to let it 
grow than to try and cut it.  I feel the gentle tugs as he combs 
out the tangles, then buries his face in it, breathing deeply. 

I remember this touch.  I remember this Mulder.  

He rebraids it the way he must have learned on Samantha's hair
decades ago, fastening it with my elastic band.  When he gets up, 
I reach back for my hat, but Mulder keeps it.
 
"Leave it off," he says.  "No one will bother you."

That's because I'm his property.  I'm Mulder's now.

After dinner, I lay in bed beside Mulder, listening to Gibson and 
the girl have sex upstairs.  Where were child protective services 
when you needed them - I think I'm listening to a felony.  At 
least it's not Mulder with her.

The boy is restless in front of me, tossing and turning.  Finally 
the child whispers to me:

"Gibson isn't hurtin' her.  You can go to sleep."

I feel Mulder shift and the boy leaves silently.  The couch 
springs creak as the boy lays down in the living room, banished 
to the other end of the house.  Mulder runs his hand over my 
shoulder and down my arm, up over my stomach and resting it 
between my breasts.  

"Do you want this, Scully?"  He can hear what I want, he just
wants the word to come out of my mouth.  "You don't need to be
afraid - I won't hurt you."  

I want to believe him.  

Mulder stands up and undresses, revealing more scars on his body. 
Then he lies back on the bed and waits, the way I waited for
Skinner.  "If you want me, you make love to me."            
     
I hesitate.  It was easy to imagine an eternal bond of love 
between us when I was alone and afraid.  It was even easy to 
allow myself to be seduced that night in the bunker by a savior 
who could read my mind.  Mulder, my best friend and partner, had 
never been my lover.  Not in the way I'd imagined Before.  And 
this man was almost, but not quite, my Mulder.

A hand takes mine in the darkness and I remember all the times
Mulder held my hand Before.  Stood by me, saved me, loved me
without question.  I move with him as he draws me closer.
 
Mulder has never been passive about much of anything, and an
apocalypse hasn't changed that.  His hands rest on my hips,
encouraging me as I slide down slowly, further and further 
without hesitation, gritting my back teeth against the pressure 
on my cervix.  I'm not really ready yet and there is a tight 
stretching, almost tearing sensation, like opening your mouth too 
wide when you yawn.  I breathe deep, smelling Mulder and hearing 
his gasps at the tight embrace.  For you, Mulder - does that tell 
you how much I want you?  A hand on the small of my back - on my 
tattoo, and on my waist guide me as I rock.  My orgasm comes 
almost instantly and I lay against his sweaty, scarred chest as 
he continues to guide my hips, faster and faster until I feel his 
body stiffen and arch under mine.  Only afterwards do I feel him 
inside my head, searching as I doze.
                     ***

I find it quite improbable that such order came out of chaos.  
There has to be some organizing principle.  God to me is a 
mystery but is the explanation for the miracle of existence, why 
there is something instead of nothing.

-Alan Sandage

                     ***